I remember trailing along behind my mom in the grocery store. We were walking through the refrigerated section, past the milk and cheese and yogurt. “Honey, are you coming?” she called, pushing the cart further ahead.

“Yes, ” I said, but I let the distance between us grow, pulling off my mittens with my
teeth, stuffing them in my pockets, and eyeing her back. Once her attention was directed
elsewhere, I moved toward the refrigerator and slid open a cardboard carton of eggs. I grasped one egg between my fingers and deftly lifted it from its compartment and examined it for cracks. After deciding that it was intact, I slid it underneath my shirt and closed the carton again.

My mom turned around a moment later and held out a hand for mine. I quickened my
pace and took it, all the while cradling the egg against the warm skin of my stomach. It was cold, but as we walked, my body heat moved through its shell to the thing inside, and it was warmed. I was careful. This egg wasn’t going to be scrambled or fried. This egg was going to hatch.

I would keep it warm underneath my pillow until one day a crack would spread like a
ripple across its creamy surface. A tiny yellow beak would emerge, soft but pointed at the tip. It would break free of its confines and sit in the palm of my hand, looking up at me with round, infant eyes. I imagined how it would chirp as I dropped seeds into its open mouth. It would grow big and round, and then it would lay more eggs and I would fill a whole carton and leave it on the counter for my mom. She would ask, “Where did these come from?” I would remain silent because stealing is wrong. She would be happier not knowing where they came from, knowing only that there was something to cook for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and she wouldn’t need to worry.

I stood by the checkout counter, listening to the beeps that separated my mom’s words.
“Just the cereal,” she said. “Just the cereal. We don’t need that. And you can pull out the
pretzels as well. I’m sorry. I thought I added it up properly, but you know how it goes…” I cupped my hand around the egg and relished the thought that she wouldn’t have to do this again. I was the youngest of five children. I was the smallest, the quietest, the one who knew the least, but I had a plan.

Once she was finished, we walked through the sliding automatic doors and into the cold.
I carried one bag and my mother carried the rest, the receipt, which was clutched between her fingers, trembling in the wind. We made our way across the blacktop and the air burned my ears and cheeks until they were red. I hugged the egg closer.

When we got to the car, I pulled on the handle to open the back door. It was stuck, so I jerked harder and, as I did, in a moment of carelessness, the egg tumbled from beneath my shirt and cracked against the frozen ground, the white shell jagged against black. I fell to my knees, scooping the running yolk back into the broken shards with my hands.

My mother pulled me to my feet, goo streaming from between my fingers. “That’s
strange,” she said. “I didn’t buy any eggs. Let’s go.” I blinked away tears and climbed into the car, leaving fragments of egg and shell to freeze against the pavement.

Kelly Doyle